


Battle Lust

by Ballades



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dragon Age Kink Meme, F!warrior Trevelyan, F/M, Hardbodies, Smut, Sparring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-31
Updated: 2014-12-31
Packaged: 2018-03-04 14:59:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3072320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ballades/pseuds/Ballades
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Warrior Trevelyan takes on her Commander in and out of the practice ring.  Kmeme fill, chapter 2 NSFW.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: So I haven't seen a single fic yet with a warrior Inquistitor and Cullen and that seriously bums me out. I'd love to see something where maybe the two of them get into a sparring match that leads into the bedroom or a fic where he tries to correct her sword stance with lots of touching. Just something where the Inquistitor isn't a mage please.

She stands facing him, one hand curled around the pommel of a slender practice sword.

"Are you ready?" the Inquisitor tosses out, a challenge.  She shifts her grip, lets the lathe bundle relax, the tip of it tapping against her boots.  A chill breeze rises around them, but the Inquisitor pays it no heed.  She is clad only in leathers and an undershirt that leaves nothing to the imagination, but as Cullen watches she breathes out slowly, closing her eyes.  It's the warrior's trance, Cullen knows, the clearing of the mind needed to act and react, become the sword, let everything flow instinctually.

He's probably in trouble.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?"  Cullen himself is in only his lightly quilted underpadding, his breastplate, shoulder guards, and vambraces lying in a heap outside the training ring.  He hefts his own practice sword experimentally, its weight comically light in his hand after so long using his bastard sword.  He is shieldless as well, and feeling a bit naked.  The Inquisitor is similarly inconvenienced.  For once, he thinks, she isn't dwarfed by the pommel of the greatsword that usually juts up and over her head and shoulders.

Trevelyan laughs low in her throat.  "Afraid of losing, Commander?" she taunts him.  "I'll have you kissing the dirt at my feet, begging for mercy.  Cassandra will have to drag your crying, bruised dignity out of the circle."  She takes up her stance, a foot sliding forward, her weight shifted to balls of feet in the manner of a Rivaini duelist.  "En garde, messere."

Cullen scowls and salutes in return, his competitive spirit not one to back down from threats, however idle.  Trash talking in the ring is nothing new to him.  It was something of a sport back when he had been in training, especially among young, hormonal teenagers with an endless supply of "your mother" jokes.  Cullen liked to think he'd been decent at running his mouth.  

"You're all show, Inquisitor," he tells her, moving to match the slow circling she's begun.  "What will the people think when they see their Herald yielding to my blade?"

"I yield to no man," the Inquisitor declares boldly.

Cullen laughs at her, just throws his head back and laughs.  "That's not what you said last night, Inquisitor."  Her practice sword is a blur as she extends; he parries it easily, knowing she's just testing him out.  "Oh _Maker_ ," he whines in imitation.  "I yield, I yield!  Take me!"

Trevelyan presses her lips into a tight line.  Whether she is displeased or trying not to laugh, Cullen can't say.  When the attack comes, he's ready for it, as well as the disengage that follows.  He advances quickly forward, his sword tapping out its own conversation against hers.  Her footwork is flawless, he notes, and she is falling back comfortably, one hand still tucked behind her back.

This style is not his preferred style, and if Cullen wants to win this fight, he knows he has to turn things to his own advantage.  Power was his trademark, as it was for all Templars.  Fighting in full plate with a shield didn't lend itself to grace and finesse, which the Inquisitor had in spades, even if she did love a sword almost as tall as she was.  Power was her game too, but he had the physical edge on her. So he hoped. And patience, lots of patience.

Out of her retreat she attacks, a lightning-quick balestra, feet stamping in sharp staccatos against the packed dirt of the ground.  Cullen whips himself aside as her blade slashes past, Trevelyan's toned, muscled arm outstretched in a textbook lunge.  His sword kisses hers, shivers up its length in a hissing _zzzzzip_.  Cullen's free arm follows hers up, grabs hold of her hand on the sword.  Muscles contract as he holds her arm still in the air, their bodies pressed together below.  He has her.

She headbutts him.

With a swear he lets her go, little sparks swimming before his eyes.  Cullen grabs his forehead and looks up, gives his lover a murderous glare.  He lets fly another oath as he watches the Inquisitor stumble backward, her hand on her own head.  And then she laughs, a maniacal cackle born of the singing bloodlust in her veins.  Trevelyan is the kind of fighter who can use injury as motivation, a warrior who fights fiercer, hits harder, when hurting.

"Inquisitor," he begins, intending to stop, but she's recovered now, has changed stance and grip, holding her sword two-handed.  Cullen can almost smell the raw power blooming off her, an acrid, metallic rage that fuels her when she berserks. He has no time to say anything else as she rushes him, a war cry exploding from her lips.  Her overhead swing whistles as it comes down, and the loud crack of his practice blade meeting hers, immovable object to immovable object, judders down his arms and into his feet, dissipating in the earth.  If she had put even a little more strength into the blow, Cullen realizes, their swords would have broken.

They part, then come together, dancing in the forms that he knows so well.  Time stops and yet they flow on, lost in engagement, disengagement, parry, riposte.  His world narrows down to her and every shivering, clattering contact of their swords, the heat and sweat of their bodies when they touch.  His senses expand and yet contract, tracking every one of her movements, the flutters of her sword tip, how her hips curve when she transfers weight from foot to foot.  He follows the movement of her eyes, but knows she is an excellent feinter, one who can look to one place yet strike precisely elsewhere.  He notices her shirt has come untucked in her exertions, and as the Inquisitor raises her arm for another swing, Cullen sees the ripple of abdominal muscles, flexing and contracting beneath her skin.

Too distracted.  Cullen should have been paying more attention to her setup.  The Inquisitor closes past his guard with a triumphant cry, sword coming edge-first for his throat. Cullen catches himself, brings up a hand and slaps the hilt of her blade hard enough to send her off balance, spinning away.  Cullen growls.  He wants - needs - to win this fight more than ever now, and here's his opening.

He lunges forward, sweat flying from his temple, sword cocked and ready to deliver the killing blow.  The Inquisitor's eyes widen as his sword is suddenly laid against her neck, his free arm crushing her to him.  "Concede," he snarls at her.

Trevelyan laughs again, the sound silvery, teasing.  "Only if you concede first.  Otherwise, we'll call this a draw."  The look she gives him sets his insides aflame.  The rematch will happen in her quarters at sunset, he's sure.

"Well, Commander?"  Cullen feels the tip of something hard nudge against his throat.  Surprised, he looks down to see her practice sword wedged up between them, positioned just so.  He hadn't even seen her counter.  "It looks like a draw, doesn't it?"

He releases her reluctantly, bows, receives a bow in return.  "A draw," he says, looking at her, taking her in.  Trevelyan's hair is delightfully mussed, and her chest is heaving.  He can see her nipples poking through her shirt; Cullen swallows and exhales slowly.  He looks to the rest of her.  Over her left forearm he can see a bruise purpling, rising.  When did that happen?

"We'll have to have a rematch," the Inquisitor says.  "Well fought.  Shall I see you later?"  The grin she gives him is lewd, promising.

He returns her grin, but tamps down the lust trying to break free.  Better to hold it, bank it, stoke it slowly until he can take her tonight.  It'll be another battle, another series of give and take, of changing position and calculating tactical advantage.  He looks forward to it, and the achingly sweet aftermath.

"Inquisitor, I wouldn't miss it for the world."


	2. Chapter 2

It's well past sundown by the time Cullen finally makes his way to the Inquisitor's quarters.  He's been looking forward to this all day despite being chained to his desk with barely a moment of rest.  The day's earlier sparring match had been a welcome mental break, and he thoroughly enjoyed being back in the ring with only his opponent to worry about.  He'd found himself invigorated afterwards, in a much more relaxed and cheery mood.

The Inquisitor's mood, however...she is not a patient one by nature, and Cullen worries that the rematch will have been canceled.  He never knows if someone else will be in her quarters.  She is beginning to take the less heavy reports in her chambers, and it's very possible that someone is in there right now.  If her door is locked, he'll be out of luck.  He prays that the door is unlocked, that she is unoccupied.  He's spent every free moment thinking about his fantasies, keeping himself wound up, ready for her.  

It's a big change from how tightly he controls his feelings, but Cullen doesn't mind much, not when it comes to her.  He considers himself respectful and courteous, but the Inquisitor calls to something more forceful in him, something spontaneous.  She herself is always assured, confident in her decisions, whether they are right or wrong; she is brash sometimes, impulsive to a fault, but with good instincts.  Second-guessing and introspection don't come easily to her, unlike him, and he supposes that's why they're a good match.  He tempers her, and she sharpens him.  He picks up her pieces, and she unravels him.

Unraveling.  Cullen can't keep his thoughts away from the image of the Inquisitor under him, his hands upon her smooth skin, her lips slightly parted around a needy whine.  He feels a tightening in his groin, hurries a little more to the Inquisitor's door.  With a grateful sigh he finds that it's unlocked.  He pushes it open, shuts it behind him, locks it firmly.

Cullen hustles up the stairs.  Above him there is the orange glow of firelight, and the softer flicker of candles.  He sees the Inquisitor sitting sideways lazily in her chair, legs hanging over the arm.  Her feet are bare; her boots are lying haphazardly on the floor, laces sloppily undone.  

She gives him an arch look.  "You're late."

"I apologize.  I did my best to slip away as soon as I could."  Cullen edges nearer, trying to read her emotions.  "I hope you weren't waiting too long, and that you took some refreshment."  Her face is impassive.  "Inquisitor -"

Trevelyan laughs, her stern facade falling away.  "Cullen, don't you retreat into your courtesies now.  Yes, let's discuss your tardiness.  If this were a duel you would have forfeited long ago.  Shall I dictate the victory conditions?"  The Inquisitor lifts her legs off the arm of her chair, swivels around to face him squarely.  Her eyes are sparkling with amusement instead of sparking with anger.  "You will cede to me your body and your will.  If I give a command, you must obey without question.  Your Inquisitor demands this, Commander."

Cullen's eyebrows lift.  "The penalty is harsh for the slight that was dealt, your Worship.  I must protest the terms."  He crosses his arms across his chest, tilts his head slightly to the side.  "Might there be a chance to negotiate?  Your commander begs forgiveness, but I am afraid the terms are disagreeable."

"On the contrary," the Inquisitor drawls, standing up, approaching him.  "I find them wholly agreeable.  However, I will take your concerns under advisement."  She reaches him, places hands on his shoulders, stands on tiptoe and presses her lips chastely to his.

"Oh good," Cullen murmurs. 

"Beginning with our postponed rematch," Trevelyan breathes against him.  Cullen feels his pulse quicken, and he slips his arms around her body. She is solid, all lithe muscle and athletic ability.  "I think it's perfectly fair that we begin after some preliminary deliberations."  Trevelyan's eyes narrow, and her lips turn up in a wicked smile.  "In bed.  With your mouth on me."

Cullen feels a surge of anticipation, feels his blood flow faster.  He swallows.  "I...I accept my penance, Inquisitor."

Her smile remains as she lays herself down on her ridiculously ornate Orlesian bed, shimmies herself up towards the headboard.  Cullen shucks off his coat and lets it drop in a heap, undoes buckles and straps in record time and dumps his armor unceremoniously in a pile by the foot of the bed.  When he looks up he sees that Trevelyan has divested herself of her pants and is waiting, legs crossed loosely, body propped up on elbows.

"Patience," Cullen says as he climbs onto the bed.  

The Inquisitor snorts.  "I'm afraid I don't understand what that means."

Cullen laughs quietly.  He slides a palm up the outside of a thigh, places a kiss on a knee.  There is a small scar that curves around from the front of her knee around to the back.  He kisses it too, follows it to its end, pushes her leg to the side and continues up her inner thigh.  Cullen hears the thump of the Inquisitor's back on the mattress as she lets herself fall, her soft sigh as he nears his destination.

And then, he chooses not to go.  Cullen trails his lips around the area, teasing her.  He finds inches of skin that require his attention, like that delicious join of thigh and hip, the crease of her groin, her taut, flat stomach.  Cullen can feel her frustration at his circuitous route.  She shifts against him in an attempt to get herself against his mouth, but Cullen moves with her deftly, perfectly in step.  Trevelyan hisses out her displeasure.

"Proper reparations must be made," he says with his lips barely touching the area right below her navel.  He exhales gently, hot breath caressing her.  He feels her twitch, hears her voice, quiet, a throaty sound.  "I cannot risk another diplomatic incident, after all..."

"Keep me waiting, and you'll have a diplomatic incident," mutters the Inquisitor.  

Cullen laughs again.  "If you say so," he tells her mildly, giving her stomach a soft kiss.  He gets his shoulders under her thighs, interlaces his hands over her belly, locks her down under his arms.  He dips his head down and nuzzles her between her legs, pressing a kiss to her mound and inhaling deeply.  Her smell is both earthy and sharp, fertile even, with a hint of the scented soap she uses.  It's intoxicating.

"Maker's breath, Cullen," Trevelyan says.  Her voice is a little strained.  "I have been hot for you for hours.  All day.  Please."  She tries to move her hips, but he holds her firmly down.  She'll have her pleasure, but on his terms, not hers.  

The Inquisitor makes a sound of frustration and reaches down, fingers grazing past the stubble on his chin, and parts herself for him, trying to push her hips at him again.  Cullen denies her a second time, just barely; her scent is heady and inviting, and he can see the truth of her statement in the wetness that covers her all over.  He can't resist.  With a groan, he places his mouth against her, tongue flicking out to taste her.  "Yesssssssss," Trevelyan responds, parting herself wider, opening her legs more for him.  "Yes, Cullen, like that, Maker."

Cullen works her with lips and tongue, kissing her on her slick little opening, sucking on her sensitive lower lips. He traces circles around her clit with his tongue, laves her with it, alternates his broad, wide strokes with smaller, precise laps.  Minutes pass, he cannot tell how long, and Trevelyan has given up holding herself, threading fingers into his hair instead.  Sometimes she'll cradle his face, pull him in to drink more deeply of her; other times she'll just ball her hands into fists and moan at him.  When she does, Cullen opens his eyes so he can watch her writhe, body undulating sinuously, warm firelight burnishing her skin with gold.  This is the part he loves, the control he craves.  His tongue, there, and the Inquisitor's head thrashes from side to side.  A careful suck, and her loud exhale turns into a moan.  Her responses are on a hair trigger, and the power is all his.

Cullen unclasps his hands, gets both palms under her ass, tilts up her pelvis to change the angle, dives back in with an openmouthed kiss.  The Inquisitor's moans rise in pitch, mirroring the wet sounds coming from between her legs.  "Cullen," she pants, "I can't - I - oh..."

He hums against her, mouth covering her lower lips, hits a note that resonates in her body.  Trevelyan gasps, but when he allows his voice to find its vibrato she keens, a wordless long vowel that dissipates into the air.  Cullen is incredibly aroused by it, if it were possible to be more aroused, and tries it again.

The Inquisitor rewards him with a spiraling wail, a sound so compelling that he almost stops what he's doing so that he can enter her. Maker, he wants to finish the job, finish inside her as she comes, but they've only just begun and he doesn't want this to end.  He pulls a hand away from her, then takes two fingers, splays them, places them right between her inner and outer lips, applies gentle pressure.  He alternates his fingers, rubbing her inner lips with the sides of his knuckles.  The Inquisitor makes a thrilling little noise as her body jumps beneath him, and Cullen has to hold her fast as she rocks to one side.  She's close.

Cullen grins against her, gets his lips around her, pushes fingers against her, and sucks.

The Inquisitor cries out as she comes fiercely, her body convulsing beneath him.  Cullen presses on, relentless, mouth hard and fast against her.  Her body is pulled tight like a string, toes pointing and flexing, the muscles of her thighs contracting against his shoulders as she continues to climax.  She tries to throw her head back, but ends up arching like a cat instead.  He sucks on her again, and she gives him an _ahhhhh!_ , then _ohhh, oh, oh._  Cullen coaxes her through a variety of sounds, keeping her orgasm rolling on until she is twitching and shuddering, pushing him away from her body, wracked with aftershocks.

He disengages from her.  The Inquisitor lies limp, one hand covering her face as if having a private moment, chest heaving as she comes down.  Cullen is suddenly quite upset by how restrictive his clothing seems, how tight his pants are.  When she hears the sound of fabric sliding against skin the Inquisitor peeks out from behind her fingers, watches him hungrily as his tunic comes off, his breeches.  That smile appears again as he climbs back onto the bed, and her pink tongue darts out, licks her lips as she stares at his cock.

"Your turn," he rasps at her, indicating her shirt with its millions of fastenings.  Cullen is a bit lightheaded from how hard he is, and he can't imagine fumbling with all those brass things in his state.  He's more likely to rip it off her instead of bring careful.  He can't think of anything but Trevelyan and the inevitable conclusion to the evening.

She obliges, fingers unfastening clasps agonizingly slowly, revealing creamy flesh inch by inch. Here is where she gets him back, he thinks, in a striptease that will have him senseless with desire before its over.  He kneels between her legs, watching as the edges of her shirt spring apart bit by bit.  She's still smiling as she works her way out of the sleeves and throws the garment across the room.  Cullen wants to see that teasing smile gone, see the smugness wiped off her face and replaced with that little o her mouth makes when she's about to come. He wants to see those lush lips of hers go slack for a second before she shivers her way into an orgasm and breaks into a hundred pieces.  He wants to -

"En garde, messere," the Inquisitor whispers to him, and in a swift movement, she sits up and bends forward.  Cullen's cannot react fast enough; he does nothing, can do nothing as she grasps him, gives him a half-lidded, smoldering look before her hot, tight mouth descends over his cock, taking him in deep.

He shouts, a strangled sound, his hands going involuntarily to her head, fisting themselves tightly in her hair.  The Inquisitor squeaks and mewls with him in her mouth, and he almost comes at that.  He feels the pressure building, building, but if he comes in her mouth he would be incredibly disappointed.  He has to give himself a distraction, something that might keep him from orgasming right then and there.  So he does the only thing he can think of: he gasps out the Chant of Light.

The Inquisitor laughs on a particularly fast downstroke and he almost comes again.  "The Maker," he says, but then gets stuck on the word.  "Maker," he says a second time, then, "Maker, Maker."  He needs to stop this but he's almost out of his mind with the pleasure that comes from his lover worshiping him with her wet mouth, dancing tongue, insistent hands.  He groans at her calculated, long strokes, tries to still her on him so he can catch his breath and get his bearings.  "Stop," he finally manages.

Reluctantly, Trevelyan pulls off.  Cullen can see that her cheeks are flushed, her pupils dilated with her need for him.  It only serves to make him want her more, knowing that he is what she desires.  Andraste preserve him, he is a lucky man.  His hands cup her face tenderly.  "I love you," he tells her before he gives her a searing kiss.

The Inquisitor's arms twine around his neck as she responds, her bare breasts pressing into him.  They are an interesting mix; he can taste both himself and herself on her tongue, on her lips.  Cullen melts into her when she takes charge, her tongue sweeping into his mouth, her hand tightening on the back of his head.  He feels her pull him down into a lying position, and they stay like that for long moments, simply kissing.

And then Trevelyan takes one of his hands in hers, brings it down to the place between her legs.  Cullen groans at how wet she is, how hot and humid and ready.  That's all the warning she gives him before she sits up, shoves roughly at his shoulder and hip so that he's lying flat, takes him into her hand, and guides him into her.

His breath hisses through clenched teeth as he feels her part around him, tightness enveloping his length.  Trevelyan's eyes are closed as her hips sink downward, her lower lip caught tantalizingly between her teeth.  She braces her hands on the bed to either side of him as she continues to push, sheathing herself onto him bit by bit.  Their hips finally meet and they both moan at the fullness of their connection, how sublimely they fit into each other.  The Inquisitor stays there for a long moment, and Cullen savors the feeling, savors all of it: how she looks, her eyes closed and head hanging down; how she sounds when she wriggles atop him, panting, tiny moans escaping her involuntarily; how she feels, so deep and tight and satin-smooth.

Experimentally, he rolls his lower body up and against her.  Trevelyan's arms buckle for half a second before she catches herself, and she lets out an exquisite, breathy sigh.  Cullen has the upper hand for the moment, and he urges his hips up again, wanting to take advantage for as long as the opportunity presents itself. 

Cullen grabs her hips, fingers digging into her flesh, lifts her just a bit and then jams her back down onto him.  Trevelyan wails, arms buckling again, dropping herself onto him.  Cullen grins at her, gives back that same wicked look from before.  With a grunt she presses herself up, but Cullen just repeats his maneuver and she is all a-quiver again, collapsing against him.  He groans as their bodies touch, her breasts a pleasant pressure on his chest.

The Inquisitor is gasping something, and it takes Cullen a moment before he realizes what she's saying.  "Cheater," she is saying to him, though he doesn't think what he's doing constitutes cheating.  This was the dance they'd both wanted, after all.  "Not fair, _not fair_!"

Just like that she recovers.  Cullen sees the fog clearing from her eyes, and he braces himself for what comes next.  Trevelyan props herself up and begins to ride him in earnest now, her hips rocking against him, rocking and tipping forward so that she can draw as much of him inside her as possible.  It's Cullen's turn to hold on, his fingers white on her, thumbs digging into hipbones.  She might have bruises there later, but he doesn't think she can even feel pain at the moment.  The Inquisitor is chasing down her orgasm something fierce, her breasts bouncing to the rhythm of her body.  Cullen moans loudly, feeling the pleasure begin to crest, his cock twitching.

Cullen surges forward, clasping the Inquisitor's body to his. Her eyes spring open in shock and she glares at him for interrupting her so rudely.  But Cullen can't let it end like this.  With his arms encircling her, he twists, carefully bringing her around, making it so that he's on top.

"Cullen," the Inquisitor whines, "What..."

She never gets to finish her sentence.  With a growl Cullen pulls almost all the way out, then slams himself back inside, turning her next word into a choked-off cry.  He plants his elbows into the bed and snaps his hips forward again, eliciting another moan.  He's waited long enough, he thinks.  Trevelyan loves pushing him to the edge, loves seeing him abandon reason and just _go with it_ , like when he kissed her for the first time, or when he took her on his desk.  Cullen grits his teeth and growls, burying his face into her neck.  He's in that place now.  He wants to just _fuck_ her.  He is going to fuck her _blind_.

Trevelyan wails her pleasure again at his next thrust, doesn't stop, and becomes one long, continuous vocalization, punctuated with high yelps every time their bodies crash together.  She hooks her legs around his waist, angles up slightly, wraps her arms around him and molds herself to his body.  Cullen tucks a hand beneath her back, supporting her, looks at her beautiful face with her mouth in a pert, round shape.  She is coming undone for him, her control fragmenting, but Cullen holds her tight, keeping her together.  

With his free hand he finds her clit, a finger drawing a circle around it.  Trevelyan's squeal reaches new heights, and he feels her shuddering around him, her wetness and slickness increasing.  "Yes," Cullen tells her, his voice a rumble, "Yes, come now love, let go, I have you."  He pulses his thumb against her, and then suddenly she is off the edge, kicked over, climaxing loudly against him, mouth slack and keening.  "Maker," he chokes out before all speech is torn away, stolen by the Inquisitor's body orgasming in wild waves, taken by her almost hysterical gasps and cries.  The force of his own orgasm saps his breath, and as he comes the Inquisitor just comes harder.  Cullen makes some guttural noise, thrusting shallowly into her, seeking to go deeper as he unfurls himself into her, filling her with spurts of hot seed.

As they recover, bodies shaken and twitching, Trevelyan's tender side reveals itself.  She brushes her fingers through his hair fondly, a little smile playing about the corners of her lips.  She stares into his eyes with a dreamy expression, and in that moment Cullen knows, just like the last time and all the times before that, that he is completely, utterly hers.  She kisses him languorously, practically purring as she checks herself and feels his seed slowly wending its way out of her.  Cullen is exhausted, and has only the strength to find the edges of the covers and pull them over both their bodies.  

The Inquisitor gives him another little kiss, placing it on his scar.  She snuggles in, practically glowing.  "Another draw, my love?" she asks him, voice sex-roughened.

"Mm," he agrees.  Then there's silence.  When Cullen opens his eyes, he sees that she's drifting off.  "It was...Inconclusive. More negotiations are needed."

"How about in the morning?"  Trevelyan breathes deeply in a half-yawn.  "Resume talks then?"

Cullen closes his eyes, brushes the soft skin right below her ear with his nose.  His entire being feels warm, relaxed.  Happy.  "I'm looking forward to it."


End file.
